


take a chance on me

by llgf



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Kinda, Klaroline, how to be together, maybe 100 years later, the kids are mentioned really briefly, they're trying to figure it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llgf/pseuds/llgf
Summary: “There’s blood on your collar,” he’d told her.Words that she’d perhaps given too much importance to; still, she had fled. It had felt too casual, too normal for her to think of them as simple words. He’d become a kiss when she woke up, a cup of coffee waiting for her, the smell of paint and a door already open.It was unacceptable.





	take a chance on me

**Author's Note:**

> this was beta'ed by [garglyswoof](http://archiveofourown.org/users/garglyswoof/profile), thank you so so much Kally! I wouldn't be writing at all without you (is that pish posh?)
> 
> this is canon-ish? just Caroline trying to figure out how to be with him maybe 100 years later?

“There’s blood on your collar,” he’d told her.

Words that she’d perhaps given too much importance to; still, she had fled. It had felt too casual, too normal for her to think of them as simple words. He’d become a kiss when she woke up, a cup of coffee waiting for her, the smell of paint and a door already open.

It was unacceptable.

They drank together, almost lived together, but Caroline had never put thought into this ‘together’.

So, she’d fled, the plane ticket heavier in her palm than it should have felt. She wonders now when he’d taken the time to plant this seed in her mind, because it's growing, and every time it is harder to leave.

But he’s never far away, somehow. Maybe he’s following her, and maybe it’s because of the stamps on the empty postcards she sends him. Maybe it’s her.

“How did you find me?” she asks, the 80’s song blasting swallowing half of her words – maybe that’s the sound of freedom? Not being able to hear her own thoughts and words – but they both have vampire hearing, so she doesn’t bother to repeat.

He shows her a postcard and points at the stamp - Stockholm.

“You could have written something,” Klaus says, getting dangerously close so he can put his hands on her hips. She should mind but she doesn’t. They’re fine there. “On the postcard.”

“Maybe I had nothing to say.”

“You always have something to say,” he says and it makes her laugh, but not his next words. “You could have given an explanation.”

She has 23 unsent letters about that, but still no good reason.

“We could have visited Sweden together, you know. _Jag talar svenska._ ”

“Is there a language you don't speak?” she laughs, but it's a question she’s always asked herself.

“The one that makes you stay.”

There’s a second before Caroline huffs. “That was incredibly cheesy,” she says in a laughing tone.

“I am serious, Caroline. Why?”

There it is. The bad, bad word. The one eating at her heart and brain like a curse. “I tried _serious_ more than once, it never worked out.”

He knows she's not talking about their discussion, about being true and honest.

“I am not Stefan Salvatore, love.”

She knows he isn’t. He is nothing like Stefan.

“Every time I touch your pillow and find it cold, I want to rip hearts out.”

“Is that seriously your way of telling me you miss me?” she turns around, her back to his chest. “You know all the languages in the world but you don't know how to use them. I thought you were better with words.” He’s always been the poetry and wine kind – he would have cuts from old books’ pages if he could really bleed, she thinks – while she’s more a tv and margarita kind of girl. Speaking of margaritas, she feels a few getting to her head.

“Only when my muse is around.”

It’s not just the margaritas.

He’s always been poetry and wine, her mind repeats, both sides intoxicating. He has this ability to turn the words “once upon a time” into “however long it takes”, two different promises of a fairy tale.

They sway, there’s no music and they’re following their own tempo like waves, soft and undulating, capricious almost.

“Why can’t you stay?” He murmurs, so low and so close it’s more like a breath in her ear, and it makes her skin, her nerves, tremble.

Her heart stops – literally, or whatever – and she repeats the question in her mind. _Why can’t she stay?_

Caroline feels all the possible answers swallowing her whole, but one of them is bigger than the others. Fear.

She would never say that to him, she would never admit that she’s afraid to be with him, to stay with him. His sharp teeth and promises. She’d promised herself to never let herself feel bad because of a man, she’d done it too often before and she’s an old creature now.

“I never thought you wanted formal,” is all she thinks to answer, a half-lie slipping through her lips with more venom that she would have liked.

“I’ve met your great-grand-children, you’ve met my great-grandchildren, isn’t that formal enough?”

This has been a weird encounter, from both sides. She came to the hospital to see Anna, her grandchild, with a pink glittery balloon with “get well soon” written on it, and at her arm, a thousand-year-old hybrid.

“I can keep chasing you around if you want to, Caroline, I am willing to do it to be with you, but,” he turns her around, his lips on her neck - to bite or to kiss, it's always been like that with Klaus, “I never thought I would be the one asking you to be serious, together, by the book.”

She remembers taking a test in a magazine, _Are you in a casual relationship?_ , and the answer hadn’t been what she expected. _More squares than circles or crosses means you’re in a serious relationship_.

 _Fuck you, Marie-Claire_ , she’d said but Caroline hadn’t put much thought into it.  Serious with Klaus Mikaelson is a scary thing, and Marie-Claire had put her fears in black and white, with squares and circles, and she had decided to just _forget about it_.

“You’re getting soft,” says Caroline, and she knows she’s just avoiding the main topic, but she doesn’t know what else to say.

She half-moans, half-laughs, he’s kissing her neck, and she thinks about all those years in the high school hallways with Klaus’ shadow everywhere. She never thought she would end up here, in his arms, him murmuring how he wants to see her in the morning, late at night.

“I have something for you in my pocket.”

“That’s the beginning of a terrible joke, Klaus.”

He laughs. She loves how careless it sounds, how his Adam's apple bobs, and she wants to kiss his throat and jaw.

He is a handsome man.

“This is not a joke, sweetheart, please, take it,” says Klaus, a smile still plastered on his face. He looks like he's the one receiving a gift.

So she dips her hand in his pocket, her eyes not leaving his because he's doing the same.

It’s square, velvet, and she refuses to think more about it before she opens the little box.  

She does, and she hears her heart beating so loudly it could be in her ears.

There’s a diamond looking back at her, a rose-gold ring carrying it. It’s quite modest, and that should be a surprise, but there are always so many with him she doesn't know if it's not a habit now.

“It’s not a wedding ring,” he says, before quickly adding, “if you don't want it to be.” He is fidgeting with his words, and it's another surprise. Klaus has always been so confident, so seeing him distraught this way is refreshing, but it also gives more weight to the ring in her hand. “It's a gift. A formal one. Because you never really believe in my promises, so I thought I might as well materialize them.”

“Klaus -” she starts, but can't find the words. Maybe she did send an empty card so he could find her. Maybe she just loves the chase. Maybe she's scared to _stay_ , because it would mean putting words into what's going on between them.

And _Mrs._ Mikaelson? That's a heavy word.

“I-” he's letting her talk, not even forcing the words out of her, and he's trying to keep his face neutral - even if she can now read him like an open book. “I don't want to marry you, Klaus.” Caroline says quietly.

His jaw flexes, nodding, like he’s already giving up the fight, but _she’s not finished_ , so she raises her finger and gives a sharp nod to guide him outside.

He opens the back door for her but still doesn’t say a thing. Caroline doesn’t know if she’s grateful for it or not. She takes a breath, her head high, looking at the tiny stars.

“I shouldn't need a ring to tell me what I already know,” she begins, looking at the jewelry still in the palm of her hand. “I’ve been running away. Since I was finally able to roam around the world, without any promises left in a small town. I was screaming for change. Change! Change! I cut my hair. I tried green nail polish! I even wore Doc Martens!” She shows her shorter hair, her hands and feet, like in a children’s song - she wishes it could be as simple. “I was begging for change. And you arrived. You came back. And it felt like opening an old diary with little notes everywhere, where I used to glue candy wrappers and glitter -” she’s ranting, she has a _point_ , she just needs to get there. It will be easier if she doesn’t look at him. Oddly, it's always been harder to be honest with him. He looks like he's really listening, and could use whatever you say against you later. Caroline knows now that it's not always a bad thing. “What I am saying is that, you reminded me of an old life. Something I was avoiding. And that's a shitty excuse, because I like being with you. I love it even.”

Caroline dares a glance at him when she almost swallows that last line.

“You love it?”

Caroline puffs and closes her eyes, “Yes, I do.” The truth in these famous words makes her head spin. “I’ve been playing tag for too long.” He has a bright smile on his face and she hates how it curves her own because it shouldn’t be so simple.

“We just have to try, Caroline.”

“It sounds so easy.”

“Because it is.” He just shrugs. She hadn’t remembered this, how soft he’d been when he was haunting her school’s hallways, how casual he could be. She had lived years with him, met him in Budapest, kissed him in Milan, slapped him in Barcelona, made love in every country in Europe, and yet, she still looks at him like she has things to learn about him.

She realises that it’s probably how he’d been looking at _her_ for all these years. Why her friends had said he was obsessed with her. How he’d asked her questions, dared to say what he believed. Klaus had always been accurate about her, maybe because he just watches?

Klaus grabs her hand, opens her hand like a flower, one finger at a time, and takes the ring between his thumb and forefinger, “Do you want it? It doesn’t have to be a proposal ring.”

“Then what is it?”

“Another _however long it takes.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a song by ABBA (of course, they're in Stockholm) and I thought it was fitting. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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